


Closing Arguments

by rufeepeach



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Courtroom AU, F/M, Rumbelle Order In The Court, lawyer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: Jaded defence barrister Mr Gold finds himself inexplicably drawn to the Crown Prosecution Service's rising star, prosecutor Belle French.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rumbelle order in the court event on Tumblr. You're going to learn a few things about the UK court system, fair warning. A few starting points:
> 
> A) A barrister is a lawyer who stands up in court and argues, wearing a wig and robe (at least in the criminal Crown Court, where this is set). They are distinct from solicitors, who do the research/client work, and who handle non-contentious law like contracts and real estate. Barristers work in Chambers, solicitors work in firms. Both Belle and Gold are barristers in this. If you want a laugh, look up the wigs and robes, then imagine being sexually attracted to someone wearing that. 
> 
> B) the CPS stands for the Crown Prosecution Service. They're the people who represent the prosecution in criminal trials. Basically the UK version of the District Attorney.
> 
> C) All the case law in this is entirely fictional, if you can't tell by the names, so don't expect to learn any actual law.

Gold had made any number of mistakes in his life.

However, the one that haunted him this morning was not his failed marriage, or his estranged relationship with his son, or how easily he’d let work and greed isolate him from the rest of the world.

This morning, Gold lamented one thing: telling Mal Vincent, in a moment of weakness, that he was not a morning person.

At the time, Mal had been a colleague, another QC working out of his Chambers who was disgustingly capable and put-together first thing in the morning. He’d been heavily hung-over that day, as far as he recalled, and she had breezed into Chambers in her pristine grey pantsuit, her hair coiffed and make-up perfect, and scoffed at his five o’clock shadow and dependence on his coffee cup.

He’d made a sour quip about how sobriety would force one to embrace the morning – less chance of coming across temptation that way. Mal hadn’t taken too kindly to the slight on her history, and he actually liked her, in his own misanthropic way. He’d muttered an apology when he’d realised his offence, and told her how he loathed working first thing in the morning.

Just his luck she’d get appointed to the Bench. It was one thing to have a friendly rivalry with a colleague: it was another to have a Judge take pleasure in tormenting him.

And so, Judge Vincent had scheduled this CPD seminar for 9am, Monday morning, and Gold was certain part of it was just so she could torture him.

He had considered skipping it altogether. However, with the recent _King_ ruling having thrown so much of the law into disarray, he couldn’t afford to miss an important insight. Especially since he was certain _King_ would factor into the arguments he’d have to give next week in court, and Judge Vincent wouldn’t go easy on him just because he’d decided to stay in bed today.

So here he was, at 8:45am, hunched over the terrible coffee machine in the courthouse lobby, hoping to God that the muck it churned out could keep his heart beating for the next few hours.

The machine finally gurgled to a stop, and Gold pulled back his cup and took a hesitant sip. He grimaced: it tasted like burnt engine oil. It was, however, vitally necessary for his continued functioning, so he took another sip. Bad coffee was always, always preferable to no coffee at all.

“That bad, huh?” a soft voice, female, came from beside him. He looked up to see who in the world was stupid enough to address him before his first cup, and saw a stranger.

She was tiny, was his first thought, even in her sky-high heels. It was so rare for him to meet anyone he could tower over, but this diminutive young woman barely came to his shoulder. Her dark hair hung in long, shiny curls over her shoulders, and she smiled so brightly it hurt his eyes. Her neat black skirt-suit told him nothing about who she was: professionals and members of the public alike would dress up for court.

“Bloody terrible,” he muttered, in response to her query. She laughed, a bright and merry sound. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Starbucks ‘round the corner has a half-hour queue out the door,” the woman confided, stepping in to fill the space he’d vacated and beginning to fill her own cup. “Or else I wouldn’t be relying on it.”

“You seem chipper enough to dodge the bullet,” he groused. “Young people don’t have to rely on stimulants.”

She laughed again, and looked at him. “I have a seminar in fifteen minutes on the developments on judicial treatment of white collar crime,” she told him. “So I don’t think youth alone will keep me standing.”

He eyed her appraisingly. He’d thought he knew everyone working in their little sector of the City these days; it was a small enough group after all. He knew he’d remember if he’d met her before. She was beautiful, no two ways around it, and she made full eye contact every time she spoke, those striking blue eyes meeting his fearlessly.

She was young and bright-eyed enough to still be in pupillage, or perhaps she was a trainee solicitor sent by one of the firms. Whoever she was, she hadn’t heard of him, so she couldn’t have been around for long. He knew every pupil and trainee in the City had their own ‘run-in with Mr Gold’ story – it was all but a badge of honour, at this point. Maybe she was even an assistant, or a paralegal. Whoever she was, she was green as a sapling.

“Have you been to one of these before, then?” he asked, not knowing why he did. Maybe there was something slipped into the god-awful coffee that made him converse with strangers.

The woman smiled, and shook her head, those long, soft curls shaking with the motion. Her cup was full, and she stood straight. “No, I- Oh sweet Jesus!” she cried, having taken a sip and belatedly actually tasting the contents. “You were giving it too much credit!”

“It’ll keep you awake,” he shrugged, taking another sip as if to prove it. This time, he managed to hide his grimace as he swallowed. “That’s all it has to do.”

“I haven’t been to one of these before,” she told him. “I’m actually new to London. So I didn’t know the coffee was this bad – honestly, I didn’t know that coffee could _be_ this bad.”

Well that explained it, then. She was clearly fresh out of University, and some superior had brought her along to see the courtrooms and hear the big players speak.

“How do you like the city?” he asked, because she was still making that infuriating eye-contact and he felt it was expected. She smiled – it seemed she was always smiling.

“I love it!” she enthused. “It’s everything everyone always says it should be, and there’s so much more interesting work than where I used to be.” She narrowed her eyes, and looked him over. “I hope this isn’t rude, but... are you Mr Gold, from Castle Street Chambers?”

Gold sighed internally, and for just a moment, was strongly tempted to lie. Of course she knew who he was. She’d probably approached him with the intent to get a good Mr Gold Is An Arsehole story out of him to laugh about with her fellow trainees later. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d been baited. Worse, she could be trying to play him, get some kind of recommendation or favour out of him in exchange for a few moments of attention from a beautiful woman. He knew plenty of men in his position – barristers, judges and solicitors alike – who were guilty of such weakness.

Gold was a firm believer that one should earn one’s favours. He had no time for men who would take advantage of a young woman like her offering her time or her good graces, or, in fact, for the sort of woman who would offer them in the first place.

Regardless of her game, she was mistaken: he was twice the arsehole any of her colleagues may have warned her he was, and he could not be bought with a winning smile.

“I am indeed,” he said. She brightened, if that were possible. She really was remarkably pretty; it was almost hard to remember that she was certainly trying to work him.

“Your reputation precedes you,” she said. He smiled, thinly. If she wanted a show, then that’s what she’d get.

“This is your first time, you said? Well then, a few pointers, if I may,” he said, and she nodded, eyes shining and expectant. “There’s limited seating, so it’s good form to allow qualified lawyers and judges to sit at the tables, and stand at the back if there’s no room. If you have a question based on lack of understanding rather than furthering the conversation, keep it to yourself and look it up on your own time.”

She looked as if she had been doused in cold water, her lush mouth parting with shock, her warm blue eyes widening with hurt then flashing cold, narrowing in anger. Her lips pressed in a thin line. She almost – almost – snarled.

“Good advice,” she said, tightly. He thought for one moment she might throw her hot coffee directly into his face. He’d probably deserve it. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“Do,” he advised. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he turned and picked up his briefcase, and made his way toward the conference room used for the seminar. He didn’t look back at the tiny, shaking woman behind him, who would almost certainly be hissing and spitting his name to everyone she met for the next few weeks. Good thing, too, he supposed. It would prevent more of her ilk from approaching him in the hopes of getting anything from him. One thing those stories were good for was keeping hopeful young people well away from him.

He met Judge Vincent at the door, and shook her hand. “I see you managed to drag yourself from your crypt, Mr Gold,” she said, with a smug smile. “The allure of today’s keynote too strong to resist?”

“More like the knowledge of how I’d be made to regret not attending,” he replied. “I’ve been a little too busy to pore over today’s agenda.”

“It should be an interesting one,” Mal said, not taking the bait. “And certainly relevant to some upcoming cases. We’re honoured you decided to haul your carcass to join us. You almost look as if you slept last night.”

“Any time, your honour,” he muttered. She grinned.

“I do miss you, Gold,” she said. “We should catch up sometime.”

He didn’t bother replying to that. He just took another long sip of his coffee, and turned to make his way to his customary seat at the back of the room.

Mal’s voice stopped him, “Oh, Gold!” she called. He turned. “I’d like you to meet today’s keynote, since I know you so _avidly_ devoured the preparatory materials she sent out.” She turned to a sickeningly familiar figure, whose mouth was smiling warmly but whose eyes were glaring daggers. “This is Belle French,” Mal said, indicating the woman beside her. “I’m sure she requires no introduction.”

Indeed, she did not. Belle French was a name Gold had come across any number of times in the past week, while preparing for the Feinberg case next week. She’d published any number of influential articles in the past few years, and was by all accounts the CPS’ star prosecutor for high-value white-collar crimes. She had, in fact, been junior counsel for the prosecution in _King_ , and was rumoured to have been the real mastermind behind the arguments that had lead to such a revolutionary ruling. She was also his opposition on the Feinberg trial next week.

“Oh, we’ve already met,” Miss French smiled a silky, pointed smile, and held out the hand not holding her coffee cup. “Mr Gold, wasn’t it?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered, his stomach sinking. When he’d pictured Belle French, reading over her articles and her court documents, putting together his defence against her, he had imagined someone who hadn’t left the library in ten years, someone as pathetic and married to the job as he was. Who else could have achieved so much while still so young? Whatever he'd expected, it wasn’t the stunningly beautiful, charming woman before him. And he’d just put her down and grievously insulted her, without even learning her name. “Good to see you again,” he said, weakly, shaking her proffered hand. Her handshake was firm, solid, although he imagined she didn’t dig her sharp fingernails into most people’s hands the way she did his.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she sneered. Mal glanced between the two of them, her eyes lighting with the scent of something amiss.

“You’re our keynote, then,” he surmised. “Well, you did say you hadn’t been here before.”

“I did,” she agreed. “And don’t worry: if, when I’m finished with my analysis of the rise of complex computer coding and encryption in the commission of embezzlement and fraud, and what this means following _King_ , I find that there are no more seats available, then rest assured I’ll be happy to stand at the back.”

With that, she gave him a sunny smile that sent a chill down his spine, and turned to Mal, who was staring at them both with a small smirk curling her lips. “It was such an honour to be invited, Judge Vincent,” she said, her warm tone at complete odds to the ice that had preceded it. “I’m ready to begin whenever you are. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go check on the PowerPoints.”

She turned to move past them, and Mal returned her attention to Gold.

“Are you going to explain that, or…”

“You know these young upstarts,” Gold replied, coolly. “Always seeking to make an impression.”

“I’ve known Belle French for three years now,” Mal said. “I’ve never heard her have an unkind word to say to anyone. You walk in, and suddenly it’s as if I’m talking to Regina Mills.”

“I have that affect on people,” he shrugged, uncomfortably. “If you’ll excuse me, Judge.”

Mal waved her hand, still smirking, and Gold made for his seat. His hands shook as he pulled out his notepaper and fountain pen, ready to make note of anything new Miss French could come out with. He hoped – unkind and ungracious as he was – that she would have nothing of real interest to say.

Her talk was, of course, revelatory. Having read her articles, her background – no picture provided, or maybe he hadn’t looked, an oversight in either case – and her arguments on her past high-profile cases, he was well aware of her intellect. Her faculty with words, however, her excitement about the law and the passion and vigour with which she spoke about justice about the importance of keeping the law up to date with modern methods and modes of crime, the way she brought her audience along with her, bringing what could have been an extraordinarily dry review of case law to glorious life… Gold blinked, blearily, at the end of her talk, to find he hadn’t written a word. He was too busy watching her, enraptured by the way she moved and the way she spoke so eloquently, her warm alto accent rolling over each word.

She had been beautiful before, yes, but there was something extraordinary about how she lit up when talking about her chosen subject, her bright intellect lending light and warmth to her features, until she was all but glowing with passion and life. He felt he could listen to her talk all day, about any subject she chose. She could have read him the phone book, but if she spoke like that he’d have been glued to his seat.

After Miss French finished speaking, Regina Mills followed, talking about a far less interesting area of public sector financial law. Gold allowed himself to zone out, his eyes on the back of Miss French’s head. How he ever could have taken her for a grasping, ambitious, silly little trainee he had no idea. Doubtless she had been luminous even during her training – it was clear from how she spoke that such perception and passion could not have been taught, but were innate. She had added to that raw talent with a breadth and depth of knowledge that almost matched his own. Given a few more years’ experience, she would be truly formidable.

And he had spoken down to her, spat at her, and made her less than what she was. For the first time in years, Gold felt truly ashamed of his bad behaviour. He knew he could be beastly – there were good and honest reasons for his bad reputation in London’s legal community – but Miss French had been wholly undeserving of his scorn.

She would hate him now, as well she should. She would trounce him next week – Cara Feinberg was guilty as sin, for all she would deny it until the cows came home – and he’d have to watch and know she took true pleasure in it when she did. He’d known that already, since the CPS’ case was watertight and Mrs Feinberg was mostly pleading not guilty on the off chance a technicality might save her. That, and because Gold was reasonably certain she was a psychopath who enjoyed the attention and the theatre of it all. She’d probably enjoy prison, he thought: he felt sorry for the poor women who’d wind up locked up with her.

At the end of the seminar, there was a half hour networking session scheduled. Gold, loathing almost everyone in the room and the concept of networking itself, made for the door as quickly as he could.

He’d made it to the cloakroom, almost to the foyer, when he heard a voice behind him. “Do you have any questions, then?” Miss French called. He stiffened, and turned.

“None that spring to mind,” he replied. “You were very comprehensive.”

“You’ve changed your tone,” she noted. “Are you sure you’re not waiting for me to ask what ‘fraud’ means? Or how about whether theft is a crime? Although I suppose I should look that up on my own time. You know, due to my lack of understanding.”

He winced at the bite in her voice, although she looked and sounded amused. He wasn’t used to having his own cruel words thrown back at him.

“If you’re seeking an apology, dearie, then clearly you’ve not heard as much about me as I’d have thought.”

Miss French gave another tight smile, and to his surprise her eyes gleamed with challenge rather than malice. Or maybe they just looked the same, coming from a bright young woman with a good, strong heart.

“I know more than enough about you, Mr Gold,” she said, stepping closer. “Unlike some, I bother to do my research.”

Once again, Gold was flummoxed by how he could ever have imagined this sharp, dangerous woman as a flighty little trainee in search of approval. He was a head taller and twenty years her senior, and had the experience and accolades to show for it, and yet in that moment he felt she towered over him. He stood his ground, bracing his weight on his cane between his feet. Let her get her moment of triumph, he thought: he owed her that much after his comments a few hours previous.

“Then you know that this morning was hardly uncharacteristic,” he replied. “I’m surprised at your shock.”

“Oh, it wasn’t your unkindness that surprised me,” she told him. “Everyone warned me about that. I just expected that you wouldn’t be so stupid to not at least Google the keynote speaker of a conference you were planning to attend. Especially when I’m also counsel for the prosecution on your case next week. I expected better from you, that’s all.”

He gaped at her, his heart racing. He hadn’t been so thoroughly dressed down in years, and never by someone so tiny and so beautiful, who seemed to take such pleasure in doing it. It said something none too favourable about him that he enjoyed the sensation.

“Well I’ve been rather busy, Miss French,” he replied, swallowing to wet his throat. “No free time for idly trawling the Internet.”

“But you had read my paper on the use of hacking and coding in private client embezzlement cases,” she pressed. “I saw you nodding along while I was discussing those points. You were one of the few who looked as if you understood.”

“I will admit it was a well-researched position,” he conceded. “Even if the point you made about _Blanchard v Glass_ was a little farfetched.”

Miss French’s eyes lit up, even as her lips hardened into that thin line again, her jaw tightening. Her mouth was a very soft red, like rose petals. He wondered if they felt as soft as they looked.

His eyes flicked back up to hers the moment he caught himself, and he saw her cheeks had bloomed a little, a hint of red beneath her immaculate make-up.

“In what sense?” she asked. “The facts of that case were clearly relevant to the issue.”

“It wasn’t a criminal prosecution,” Gold replied. “Hardly relevant to a paper discussing white collar crime.”

“The case was on-going while Sydney Glass was being investigated for money laundering, on behalf of Blanchard’s wife!” Belle cried. “Exactly how is his being sued for breach of fiduciary duty irrelevant, when he had purposely designed software for that purpose and abused his position to use it?”

“No case was ever brought,” Gold spread his hands. “An investigation is just an investigation, no jury ever had chance to find him guilty. That’s the issue the CPS always has. Too much faith in the police, too little ability to admit their mistakes.”

Belle’s cheeks did flush then, an enchanting shade of rich, deep crimson. He did notice, however, that her lips were twitching, curving into a smile. She was enjoying this as much as he was. “Blanchard won that case, you know,” she said. “The court was satisfied he was at least guilty of the breach.”

“Impropriety is one thing,” Gold replied. “Illegality quite another. You’d do well not to confuse the two.”

“And which is Cara Feinberg?” she asked, pointedly. “Illegal, or just improper?”

Gold grinned, all pointed teeth. “Certainly the latter,” he conceded. “The former is for the jury to decide next week.”

“You know she’s guilty, Gold,” Belle said. “I’ve never seen a more open-and-shut case where the defendant refused to plead guilty. She all but signed her name on those corrupted files!”

“I never said my client was wholly sane,” Gold remarked, and couldn’t help a genuine smile at the soft laugh he surprised out of Belle. It softened her whole face, when she laughed, turning that bright and ready smile into something warmer still. Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, her rosy cheeks glowing. He couldn’t help but stare.

“Cara Feinberg is a special case, from what I’ve heard,” Belle agreed. “Why didn’t you advise her to plead guilty?”

Gold raised an eyebrow. “My client has yet to be found guilty, Miss French,” he said. “And so I don’t think it prudent to discuss with the prosecution what legal advice she has and has not received.”

“Fair enough,” Belle nodded. “Confidentiality and all that.”

“Indeed,” Gold agreed. “Thankfully, I haven’t been the one handling her for the most part. That heroic task has fallen to her solicitor, Ms Fisher.”

“Heroic indeed,” Belle agreed. “Even if you are trying to keep a demented thief on the streets."

“Propriety, Miss French,” he chided. “You won’t lure me into conceding my position.”

“Worth a try,” she grinned, her bright eyes sharp and gleaming. “So… was it improper or downright _illegal_ how rude you were to me earlier?”

“Neither,” Gold grinned. “You spoke to me before my coffee, dearie, and without even the good sense to introduce yourself and thus give me a good reason to temper my speech. As such, anyone in that room would agree you got off lightly, all things considered.”

“So speaking to me like a servant in a Victorian novel was warranted, because you hadn’t caffeinated yet?” she surmised, eyebrows raised. “That’s some arrogance you have there.”

“You assumed I should know who you were based on your professional connection to me, and your accomplishments,” he replied. “Isn’t it arrogant to have assumed I’d have looked you up in advance?”

“Not at all,” she smiled, like the cat that got the cream. “I didn’t overestimate my importance, just your intelligence. I had just assumed you were smart enough to know your enemy. Unfortunately, I was mistaken.”

She gave him a bright smile as she delivered her coup de grace, and then turned on her heel, and made her way back to the doors into the conference room, to her adoring public.

“I’ll see you in court, then?” he blurted, turning to face her. She looked delighted, all but bouncing in her heels as she turned to look back at him.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied.

* * *

 

_One week later_

“Whatever is the matter with you, darling?” Cara Feinberg murmured through the glass separating them, as Gold glanced at the courtroom door for the fifth time. “Aren’t you supposed to be urging me to plead guilty again or some such nonsense?”

“I’m fine, Mrs Feinberg,” he assured her, returning to the task at hand.

“Whoever are you waiting for?” Cara asked, ignoring his response. “It’s not that _delicious_ judge, is it? Ugh, I could eat her with a spoon.”

“Perhaps if you acted less like Hannibal Lector’s lecherous sister every time you spoke, this not-guilty plea would seem less ridiculous,” Gold snapped. Cara’s immaculate dark eyebrow rose.

“Touchy this morning,” she murmured. “If it’s not the _delectable_ Judge Vincent you’re waiting for, then whoever is it?”

“I’m not waiting for anyone,” he replied. “Now, when Mr Feinberg takes the stand, remember that you need to look miserable. The jury will be watching your reactions, and the worst thing you can do is have no reaction. The only way they’re going to take our case seriously is if they get an emotional connection to you. You’re the betrayed wife, remember?”

“Oh, I know my lines, darling,” she drawled. “This isn’t my first divorce hearing.”

Gold sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unless the glass somehow didn’t tip you off, Mrs Feinberg, this is not the Family Court. This is the Crown Court, you are defending charges of fraud and embezzlement, and you’re facing a prison sentence if the prosecution make their case.”

“Tom-ay-to, tom-ah-to,” Cara said, waving one immaculate red-clawed hand. “You just go out there and do your thing, and I’ll be in here, getting to know this lovely gentleman.” She turned to her security escort, and waved her fingers. He blinked back, stone-faced.

“Please don’t-“ Gold stopped, arrested by the sight before him. Belle French had slipped into the room without his noticing, and was organising her documents. She looked rather different, with her hair in a neat bun under her white wig, her black robes concealing her petite, perfect figure. He supposed that was how he’d missed her.

“Ah-ha,” Cara grinned. “It’s Little Miss Prosecution, isn’t it?” she said, and Gold was exceedingly thankful then for the thick glass, that made it impossible for anyone but himself and the guard beside her to hear Cara’s crowing. “You’ve got a crush on the enemy, you naughty boy!”

“Please try and take this seriously, Mrs Feinberg,” Gold pleaded. Cara grinned, a serial killer smile that Gold hoped she wouldn’t show to the jury.

“Please try not to throw me under the bus to impress your little girlfriend,” Cara retorted.

“Miss French is a respected colleague,” Gold bristled. “Nothing more.”

“Ohhh Miss French,” Cara cooed. “How delightful. You know, she’s very pretty, if you like that sort of thing, doe-eyed and righteous. Just the sought you imagine needing rescuing from a tower someplace.”

“If there’s nothing more you need from me, Mrs Feinberg,” Gold sighed, testily. “Then I’ll be returning to trying to keep your terrible self out of Her Majesty’s custody.”

Cara grinned, but waved him away. Gold returned to his place on the bench, facing the pedestal where Judge Vincent would seat herself soon enough.

“Mr Gold,” Belle greeted him, when he came level with her.

“Miss French,” he nodded politely.

“Have you had your coffee yet this morning,” she asked, politely. “I wouldn’t want to attempt a conversation with you until you had.”

“Before I left home, Miss French,” he assured her. “And again before coming to court. Thank you for the concern.”

She grinned. Gold returned to organising his documents.

“They’ve re-opened the Glass investigation,” she told him, a moment later.

“So I read in the paper this morning,” he replied. “New evidence, apparently.”

“The software I discussed in my talk last week,” she said. “They’ve traced elements of the transactions directly back to Glass’ IP address. I daresay the CPS will be contacted soon enough.”

“So the civil case may yet meet your requirements for relevancy,” Belle continued. “The point I made in my article may not be so farfetched after all.”

“You don’t let things go easily, do you Miss French?” Gold said. She cocked her head to one side. He wasn’t sure when they’d moved closer to one another, but he could see the flush in her cheeks now. Was it possible he got her heart racing as fast and easily as she did his?

“Not when I’ve been sneered at and had my work criticised by a man who couldn’t be bothered with a basic Google image search, no.”

“You could have introduced yourself,” he pointed out. “Saved us both a fair bit of embarrassment.”

“Saved _you_ embarrassment, you mean,” she retorted. “ _I’m_ not embarrassed at all by your bad manners!”

He stared at her, right in her eyes, so close now he could count the little flecks of turquoise among the brilliant blue. She was astonishingly beautiful, and infuriating, and with her cheeks flushed and her breath coming hard he could barely think of a retort.

His eyes flicked down to her lips, still so soft, coloured that same shade of rose petal red. He wondered what they tasted like, whether she’d look the same in pleasure as she did in anger. He wondered if he’d ever had so much fun riling someone up as he did Belle French.

“All rise!” the clerk’s voice rang out, disturbing them, and Gold jumped back, startled. He and Miss French only just managed to scramble to their own sides of the bench before Mal entered, and he swore he heard Cara Feinberg wolf-whistling behind him.

Mal took her seat, allowing Gold and Miss French to do the same. He knew he caught her smirking at him, right before she schooled her face and called in the jury.

The trial began.

* * *

 

_Three days later_

Belle shifted in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs.

Gold was giving his closing argument, and goddamnit was it hard to sit still. Did he have to roll his accent so he was caressing every word? It was hard enough to concentrate when he was being so clever and looked so good, talking with his hands and making eye contact with her every chance he got. But then with his accent and the wisps of his shaggy dark hair peeping out from under his wig, it was unreal how badly she wanted the trial to be over already.

He was rude, and superior, and he fought her on everything she said. But then, she supposed since they were opposed in court, it was his job to fight tooth and nail for his client. Even if his client was the guiltiest person she’d ever seen, and she was certain he agreed.

Cara Feinberg wasn’t even trying to look innocent. Belle wasn’t sure why she’d tried pleading not guilty, when the case against her was so clear. Even Gold with his impressive oratory skills and legal mind, couldn’t manipulate the law or facts well enough to paint her as the victim. And when Leonard Feinberg, tiny and harmless as they came, shuffled into court two days ago and was visibly terrified of his wife in the defendant box, Belle had known the jury were in her pocket.

The problem wasn’t winning the case. The jury hadn’t needed a three day trial to know a criminal when they saw one. The problem was her intense physical reaction to Mr Gold, easily the rudest and most challenging man she’d ever met, and how badly she wanted him to rip off her robe and wig and take her right there in the courtroom.

It was distracting, to say the least, and highly inappropriate considering the setting, not to mention how he’d treated her thus far. The way he’d spoken to her on that first day, sneering at her as if she’d just dribbled on herself, acting as if she were some sort of student in need of etiquette training, still made her blood boil. Any physical attraction she’d harboured when she first saw him – sleek and elegant in his tailored Armani suit, his longish hair lending an air of recklessness to his otherwise immaculate appearance – had been quashed by his disgusting attitude. She’d enjoyed the look on his face, when Judge Vincent told him who she really was. She’d enjoyed even more being able to shut him down and embarrass him, throwing his words back in his face.

She’d been more than ready to forget about him altogether. But then, while she’d delivered her talk, her eyes had drifted to him more than once. She’d expected him to be dismissive, texting or working on other matters, barely listening. Instead, he had been listening intently, nodding along with some of her points, frowning in disagreement with others. Of all the distinguished men and women in that room, Belle had known she had his full attention. He watched her like she was the North Star, like he couldn’t look away, and she’d known he’d understood and appreciated every word he’d said. When she’d confirmed he’d even read her literature, that he was as well read and sharp as everyone had warned her, more than a match for anything she could throw at him, her attraction to him had returned in a dizzying rush.

He clearly wasn’t a very _nice_ person, and there was no excuse for being that rude even if she had been a junior or a student the way he’d clearly assumed. But when she’d caught him afterward, the way he’d questioned her points and talked to her like an equal, the way he’d clearly enjoyed every moment of their interaction even when she’d been dressing him down, was hard to forget about.

There was a push and pull he gave her, a spark of challenge that she found addictive. She felt more alive arguing with him than she did agreeing with anyone else.

It helped that he was so handsome, in a distinguished, prickly sort of a way. She thought there was someone else underneath that irritable, standoffish façade, someone who really enjoyed needling her, and who had very little enjoyment in his life otherwise. There was such a sad cast to his face, when he thought no one was looking. She wondered how lonely he must be, that he got so much pleasure from riling up a woman he barely knew.

But then, how hard up must she be, if she was squirming in her seat just watching him give his closing argument? She knew it had been a while – over a year, at least – since she’d so much as been on a date. Not that she wanted to go on a date with Mr Gold. Her thoughts toward him tended far more carnal than dinner and a movie.

His fingers moved so elegantly, tracing a line of argument for the jury. She watched them with a dry mouth, and wondered how they’d feel inside her.

Three days. Three days this trial had rumbled on, and thankfully it was almost over. There was no way he’d want anything to do with her socially, after this, so she could finally get her peace of mind back once he left the courtroom. At least, until the next time his name appeared on a new case sheet.

That was unless she could get up her nerve and just ask him to dinner. She’d worn her nicest underwear and stockings to court today, on the off chance she’d find the courage to ask, and he said yes. She didn’t imagine she’d get much past dinner without throwing herself at him and all but ripping his clothes off, but the pretence was respectable at least.

Mr Gold sat down. The jury were excused, due to return in an hour unless they required more time. Belle wondered how much of that hour would be needed to make a decision, and how much would be spent idly discussing their families and hobbies, waiting to be allowed back in.

The courtroom emptied out, Mrs Feinberg led back to her cell after a brief consultation with Mr Gold, the clerks scurrying off to file the paperwork, Judge Vincent long since gone back to her office. All of a sudden, Belle realised she was alone with Mr Gold, and she didn’t have a word to say.

“How long do you think it’ll take, then?” Gold asked, while she packed away her things. Belle’s head shot up, and she met his warm dark eyes with a shiver down her spine.

“What?”

“The jury,” he explained. “How long until they realise Cara did it?”

Belle’s eyebrows shot up, and she wondered how many ethics rules he’d just broken with that one admission. “Maybe fifteen minutes?” she suggested. “If they take advantage of the free tea and coffee first?”

He laughed, a low rich chuckle that reverberated through her bones.

“Why did you take the case?” she asked then. “If you know she’s guilty?”

“She was offering an obscene amount of money,” he replied, with a crooked grin. “Well, her solicitor was. They’d charged her a fortune to take her on, and so my hourly rate went up as well.”

“That’s highway robbery!”

Gold shrugged, “You read the bundle, do you believe Mrs Feinberg to require legal aid? She could have taken a legal aid solicitor, pled guilty and gotten a third reduction on her sentence. Instead, she put us all through this dog and pony show. Excuse me while I line my pockets with her hard-stolen money while she does.”

That shocked a giggle out of Belle, and she couldn’t help but notice how his eyes lit up when she laughed, how his gaze flicked to her mouth and back up again. “I’m almost jealous,” she admitted. “My CPS salary doesn’t vary when the case gets harder.”

“I’m sure you’re far above such petty tricks, Miss French,” he waved a hand, dismissively, wrinkling his nose as if in disgust at his own tactics. “You’re too good for such things.”

“Mr Gold, my name is Belle,” she said, stepping closer, unsure why she did. It was as if he exerted a gravitational pull on her: no matter what he said or did, he pulled her in. “And I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“For once, it wasn’t an insult,” he replied. Gold sighed, and lowered his head. He’d taken his wig off, and his long hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his expression as he leaned heavily on his cane. “I just meant that you clearly work for a better purpose than I. Your motivation comes from above the bottom line. It’s almost inspiring.”

“Sometimes it’s not so easy,” she admitted. “I didn’t start out in white collar, and it’s hard not to feel for some defendants.”

“This line of work can be easier in that sense,” he shrugged. “I can’t imagine you’ll be overwhelmed with guilt when Cara Feinberg gets sentenced.”

Belle giggled through her nose, “No,” she admitted. “I can’t say I will. That’s why I do this job, you know? To get a sense of justice being done.”

“That’s almost heroic,” he remarked.

“And that was almost a compliment, Mr Gold,” she said, now so close to him her feet were almost touching his, and she could feel the warmth of his body through their robes. “Could it be you’re losing your edge?”

“Maybe questioning a few positions,” he admitted. “Your influence, no doubt.”

“Mine?” She heard her voice come soft and questioning, disbelief slipping in through her usual confidence. She’d known him a week, in a purely professional setting. She had no idea what he could mean by her ‘influence’ working on him.

“It’s not so easy as it seems, being the one fighting to keep Cara Feinberg free and clear,” he explained. “Imagine being Hannibal Lector’s barrister, and you come close. It must be nice to get a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day.”

“Considering a career change?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “The fearsome Ephraim Gold QC changing sides?”

“I prefer to negotiate my going rate,” he replied, with a small, crooked smile. “The CPS can’t afford me.”

“Like you said, some people care about things other than the bottom line,” she replied. “But I should have guessed that didn’t include you.”

“Self-righteousness has never quite been my forte,” he retorted, and she had to laugh at that.

“No, but towering arrogance more than compensates,” she replied, and he laughed at that. She wanted to trace the smooth curve of his soft lips with her tongue. “Or at least, arrogance covering for whatever lies beneath.”

“Nastiness, unpleasantness, and a deep lack of empathy for the human condition,” he informed her, briskly.

“I don’t believe that,” she replied. He rolled his eyes.

“Then you don’t know me, Miss French,” he replied. “I suppose all you’re made from is beauty, bravery and goodness.”

“How are you capable of making such a lovely compliment sound like a terrible insult?” she demanded, her eyes searching his, seeking out that hidden place inside she’d seen once or twice, the softness she knew lurked beneath the surface.

He was staring at her, and she wasn’t sure if he was even listening. His eyes ran over her face, from her mouth to her eyes and back again, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something, as if she threw his brain for a loop.

Belle went stiff with surprise when suddenly his hands were cupping her jawline, and his mouth covered hers, swallowing her shocked little noise, his lips working urgently against hers. Belle moaned, her mind finally catching up with what was happening, and she felt her eyes slip shut as her hands wound into his thick hair, and she was kissing him back.

One of his hands moved to cup the back of her head, and she felt her wig fall from her head onto the bench. She didn’t care: she was too busy teasing the seam of his lips with her tongue, swallowing his little groan when he opened for her and allowed her entrance. He tasted like coffee and tobacco, an oddly pleasant flavour, and suddenly the kiss had turned into a passionate, desperate thing, her hands clawing at his hair as he pushed her back against the bench.

Belle hopped up to sit on top of it, spreading her knees so he could stand between them, and suddenly everything was heat and pressure, his mouth plundering hers, his hands sweeping behind her head, mussing her neat bun and making her grateful she could cover it with her wig.

“You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met,” he told her, his mouth trailing kisses from her mouth and across her face, down her neck, nipping at the juncture between throat and shoulder and making her whimper.

“Same to you,” she gasped, rolling her head back, “You seem to go – oh!” he sucked at her pulse point, making her groan and clutch at the back of his head., “You go out of your way to wind me up!”

“You’re stunning when you’re angry,” he told her, kissing her mouth again, making her moan and shudder against him. His hand had left her hair and was now sliding up under her robe, up her thigh to the top of her stockings. When his fingers met the lacy tops, he paused. “Stockings?” he asked. She nodded.

“I was going to ask you to dinner,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

“Stockings… for me?” he stammered, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath on her lips. He looked wrecked, as if he could barely comprehend what was happening. Belle completely knew the feeling.

“I’ve been thinking about you ever since we met,” she admitted, her voice high and breathy as his fingers traced up over her thighs, teasing the bare skin and along the line of her knickers. “Shouldn’t have,” she admitted. “You were such an arsehole that day, but I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

“I’ve thought of nothing but you since,” he confessed, and her heart leapt, racing in her chest. “Something about you sets me on fire.”

She nodded: she knew the feeling. His fingers dipped under the gusset of her underwear, and found the evidence of her reaction to him since well before he’d kissed her. “You’re wet for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, and oh she loved to hear him call her that, his rich accent caressing the word, melting her insides. She nodded.

“We’re in the courtroom,” she whispered, regretfully. She glanced over his shoulder at the doors, terrified she’d see some security guard or clerk catch them in the act. They were still alone, thank god. “Anyone could see.”

He shook his head, “No one will come in until the jury are done,” he replied. “They never do. We have a little time.”

“Good,” she said, fervently. “Good, don’t want to wait, please…”

He nodded, as if he couldn’t think of anything else. She kissed him again, quickly becoming addicted to the taste and heat and softness of his mouth, how right and good it felt to kiss him, to claw at him, to channel the fire he ignited in her into something better than arguing. Her hands scrabbled to yank up his robe and find the flies of his trousers beneath, regretful now that they didn’t have more time, that they’d see so little of one another even during the act.

She couldn’t help it: she needed him now, had needed him for hours, and she was afraid he’d pull away from her if given time to think it over. She vowed she’d make him come to dinner with her tonight anyway, and then take him back to her apartment and see everything his robe and three-piece suit were hiding from her now.

He was hard, when she cupped him through his fine wool trousers, and she loved how he stiffened all over, how his head sank to rest in the crook of her neck, this powerful man undone by the feel of her hand on his cock.

It was the work of a moment to have his flies undone, and his hard flesh resting in her hand. She gave an experimental tug, and heard him keen against her throat, the noise hidden in her neck. “Please,” she heard him groan. “Please, Miss French…”

“Belle,” she insisted, gripping him a little tighter and enjoying his full-body shudder. “Call me Belle.”

“Belle,” he agreed, and she knew she’d never get enough of hearing him say her name like that, his accent thick and rough, wrecked and undone. “Belle, please, please let me, please, I need you, please…”

She nodded, her knees shaking with the thrill that gave her, how hot it was to hear him beg her like that. She wondered if he’d let her tie him up sometime, tease him for hours, make him beg and plead with her for mercy. She hoped he’d do the same to her. She fervently needed there to be a next time, she thought, for this one chance was never going to be enough.

She moved her free hand between her legs, and hooked her fingers under her underwear, moving the gusset aside and out of the way. She lined them up, and then guided him forward, his hips thrusting as he sank into her. Belle kissed him to muffle her low, long moan of completion. He felt amazing inside her, perfectly sized, filling her up and making her whole body heat and tremble.

She kissed him again, biting at his lips, her fingers digging into his hair – she couldn’t get enough of his hair, so soft and thick, so good to cling to – as he set up a deep, hard, fast rhythm, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he pounded into her. The fingers holding her underwear apart slipped upward, and she rubbed her thumb and forefinger over her slippery clit in time with his motions inside her. She was already a livewire, already so keyed-up and on edge, that she was close to coming before she even realised it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he told her, his voice huffing against her ear in short sharp breaths, “So bright, so good, lovely Belle…”

“Yes, yes, please, there,” she moaned, kissing him with tongue and teeth, grasping at him, trying desperately to keep from screaming. “Please, Gold, please…”

“Yes, yes!” he grunted. “Yes, that’s right, come for me, please, Belle, let me see you come, beautiful Belle, please…”

His words sent her over the edge, and she bit her lip so hard she broke the skin as her head snapped back, and she felt herself clench hard around him, over and over, waves of pleasure breaking inside her as she came and came around him. The pleasure was so intense she could barely see, and she felt him kissing her open mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, anything he could touch of her.

She felt him redouble his efforts, drawing out her orgasm and short, sharp aftershocks as he chased his own climax, finishing inside her just a moment later.

He slumped against her, breathing hard as she fought to calm herself, limp and boneless in his arms. It was a miracle no one had come in and seen that, she thought as she came down from her high. She hoped no one ever reviewed the CCTV.

She felt a hysterical giggle leave her, and he laughed too, his arms coming around her in something like a hug as he helped her to her feet, his cock slipping out of her and leaving a trail of wetness against her thigh. She straightened her robe as he fumbled with a tissue, tucking himself away and setting himself to rights as she did the same. Her wig would cover her mussed hair, and her robes were only a little rumpled. She’d need to go to the bathroom to fix her hair, however.

“I ah, need to go to the ladies’,” she told him. “Clean up, you know.”

“Of course,” he nodded. He seemed as staggered as she felt by what had happened. She’d just had sex in a courtroom, with her opponent, in the middle of a trial, on a Friday afternoon. She was sure stranger things had happened, but nothing came to mind right then.

“But after the trial… would you like to go to dinner?” she asked. “Bear in mind the grievous insult you’d be doing me by saying no, after you just fucked my brains out in semi-public.”

His mouth fell open, either at her invitation or her candour, but he nodded. “With that in mind, how can I say no?”

“You can’t,” she told him, sunnily. “Meet me outside at seven?”

“S-seven it is,” he stammered, and she grinned, and pecked him on the lips.

“Wonderful,” she said, feeling lighter than air. “I’ll see you for the verdict, then,” she beamed, and all but flew out of the courtroom, her heart soaring in her chest.

Regardless of whether Cara Feinberg was found guilty, Belle had definitely won her case today.


End file.
